


An Eternity

by epkitty



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apocalypse, Gen, Immortality, Original Character(s), Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:56:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(AU after Buffy's death)</p><p>Despite everything, Spike goes on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ages ago as a cathartic release when Buffy died. This could definitely be considered one of my first fics; I just found it on my computer and thought I might as well post it. After all this time, going back to reread it, I really have no concept if it's any good.

Time: June 5, 2002

_Things are different now, Buffy. You’re gone. That’s the one thing everyone thinks about. And that’s the one thing no one talks about. You’re gone and we mourn in silence, as though we’re trying to hold on to those last moments when we knew you, when you were still real and alive and with us._

_I watch them, your small family. They change and grow by the second, like all humans. And eventually, they’ll change enough to see the world for what it is, and they’ll grow enough to learn they don’t need you. Not really. Because they do endure. It’s slow. And hard. But they’re plugging along, day by day._

_Except your sister maybe. You see, everyone still fights the good fight, but Dawn… she was never a part of that fight. She had always been shielded from it. But now her shield is gone. I worry about her. They all do. And no matter what we say, what we do, what we offer, she refuses. And now I’m cursed to love them all, as you loved them, because that’s what love is. I love whom you love, and I care about what you care about. Even though you’re gone._

_And now I’m resolved to follow them, as I once followed you. I shall protect them, and I shall endure._


	2. Tell Me

Time: May 12, 2028

“Thanks!” the girl called over her shoulder as she jumped out of the tractor-trailer, landing on black pavement, cracked beneath her worn sneakers, with weeds sprouting forcefully up through the charred ground.

“No problem,” the truck driver replied, “but yer nuts to wanna go there.”

“Why?” the girl asked, now looking up into the cab at the truck driver.

“Town’s haunted,” the man answered the skeptical girl. “No driver stays overnight in Sunnydale if they can help it. You make sure you’re off the streets by dark,” he advised. “You got anywhere to go, know anyone here?”

“My mom grew up here,” she answered plainly.

The man nodded and the girl shut the door before he sped off, back onto the highway.

The teenager sighed, looking about at the edge of the dismal little town, wondering how different it had been thirty years ago…

She dug through her back pocket for one of the few scraps of paper her mother had given her, one of the only links to her past. “Old Sunnydale Cemetery… plot seventy-two, Haverly Road,” she read aloud, as if she hadn’t had it memorized for years.

There wasn’t a sign of life as she began walking down the street. As she grew closer to the main part of town, she passed many roads and many cemeteries, an alarming number actually, considering the small size of the town. Near dusk, however, she finally spotted Old Sunnydale Cemetery, and took off through its many long rows, searching for a grave.

The sun had just set when she knelt at the marker, simple, with a… unique epitaph. She let dainty fingers rise to trace the lettering fondly. She let the knapsack fall from her shoulder, and she dug out a red rose that she’d purchased six hours before at a gas station. “For you, Buffy,” she whispered reverently, laying the slightly wilted flower on the grave, only then noticing how kept up the site was; its grass was freshly cut and a small bed of regularly tended flowers lay at the foot of the headstone, untouched by the mold or graffiti that tainted so many others. This was a good sign; perhaps someone who knew Buffy had known her mother, and could reveal the many secrets that abounded in her family’s history.

“Who are you and what the bloody hell are you doing here?” a growling voice assaulted her from behind.

The girl jumped up with frightened surprise, alarmed at the darkly dressed man who’d snuck up on her. He looked angry, but not quite dangerous, with dark blond hair waving about his head, and bright blue eyes, a cigarette between long, limber fingers. The man glared at her, but then his eyes fell upon the rose she had laid on the grave.

“Who are you?” he asked again, a bit gentler this time.

The girl did not know if she should answer. His attitude, manner of dress, and accent were quite off-putting, and he seemed too young to know anything about her, but still, he seemed to know of this place and this grave. She’d faced plenty of creeps in her few years however, and wasn’t about to let this one get the better of her. She quickly recovered herself, folding thin arms over small, young breasts. “What’s it to you?” she asked, flipping long blond hair behind her shoulder.

The man growled and tilted his head, as if trying to figure her out. “You’re on my territory, girl. And I wanna know why.”

“You own the cemetery?” she asked, eyebrows raised in disbelieving sarcasm.

“I said my _terri’try_ , not my _land_ ,” he corrected her. “What business do you have here?”

She eyed him speculatively. “I don’t know…” she said, as if debating with herself. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers…”

The man sighed unhappily and stared at her a moment. Then, he flung his cigarette to the grass and stubbed it out beneath the toe of a boot. He smiled, a frightening expression, and held out his hand. “I’m William. How do you do, Miss…?”

Gathering her courage, the girl met the man’s cold grasp. He didn’t try anything, thank goodness, and they parted hands. “Bay,” she answered his question. “Jordan Bay.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Jordan,” William continued the introduction. “Now, what are you doing here?”

“I came to see my aunt’s grave,” she answered, gesturing to Buffy’s headstone.

The man’s jaw dropped and he took several steps closer to her. Without permission, he cupped her cheeks in two freezing cold hands, looking severely into her eyes. “You’re…”

Jordan slapped his hands away and pulled back from him in fear. This guy was too weird. “What’s it to you?”

“You’re Dawn Summers’ daughter?”

How did he know that? “Yeah… How do you know?”

“Buffy…” he said, waving at the grave, as if that were the answer to all the universe’s questions.

“But, _she_ died twenty-seven years ago… how could you have known her?”

William didn’t answer, just looking back and forth between the grave and the girl.

“Look,” Jordan said. “I don’t care how you know, I’m just here to find out about my family.” She took a breath and began her story. “See, my mom, she died when I was real young, and my dad didn’t know anything, just said that… that she had a real tough life or somethin’, and there were all these secrets… I just want to know what happened to my family,” she finished, turning innocent eyes up to the stranger. “Can you tell me?”

“I could…” the man said, staring at the grave once more, crouching down to pull up a weed, which he flung over his shoulder.

“Then you know?”

He straightened and looked back to the girl. “I do,” he agreed curtly.

Jordan stooped to retrieve her backpack and stood at his side. “Well? We gonna stand around here all night? I’m hungry; you got anything to eat?”

William laughed at her.

“What?”

“You… you’re just… you’re just like both of them.”

“Then you knew Buffy and… and my mom? I don’t understand…”

“Of course you don’t,” William said, taking off through the cemetery. “C’mon!” he shouted behind him.

Dreading the evil-seeming shadows beginning to take over the place, Jordan quickly trotted up to keep pace with the man.  
   
=

Walking through downtown was odd; Jordan had seen many similar places, but never had the inhabitants seemed so haunted, so wary of strangers, so careful of the dark. The man led her to a broken down bar, a name barely readable above the entrance. “The Bronze?” she asked. “What the hell kind of name is that? And hey! I’m too young to go in a bar!”

William grabbed her upper arm roughly before she could get any louder. “Not this one you aren’t. Now, shut up and come along.”

“Cool!” Jordan said, letting the man pull her within the dingy building, a dark and greasy place with crawling shadows and too many dark corners. The bartender nodded to the man, who ordered two beers and then dragged Jordan off to a corner, where they settled into a booth across from each other. “Hey, how come you didn’t pay for those?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really, but I wanna know anyhow.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Why are you here?” he asked again.

“Are you deaf or what? I told you, I want to know about my family, I want to know why I don’t know anything about them, why I never heard the name of a single friend, how difficult it was to even learn the name of my aunt, the name of this town. My father forbid speaking of it, but he died two years ago, so here I am.”

“You don’t have any other family to go to?”

“I have an address…” the girl conceded. “But my dad was pretty much an orphan, and from what I can tell, all the rest of my relatives are dead.”

William nodded. “That pretty much covers it. But what about the law, you can’t be eighteen yet,” he said, judging the girl’s age and appearance.

She shrugged away his concern. “I’m sixteen. They wanted to send me to a foster home, so I ran away. I took off right after the funeral, didn’t leave a trace.”

“And just what were you plannin’ on findin’ here?” The pale man looked angry now. “Some long lost brother to take care of you? Find out you’re the crowned princess of some little island nation? That it’s all a big fucking mistake?”

“No,” she answered calmly, disturbed at the golden flash in the man’s eyes.

“What do you want me to say, then?” he asked with a broken sigh.

“The truth. Why were my parents so secretive? You know, they both told me never to come back here, that something bad had happened… or would happen, or something. I never really understood. But I want to know why I don’t have a past, why it is that no one knew them, no one knew me, until I met you. You know something. You’re the first person who’s ever known anything.”

“I know too many things,” he agreed in a murmur. “They didn’t tell you anything?”

“Well… some things… I remember my mom telling me fairytales and ghost stories when I was way young, and then something about them being true… but it never made any sense, and now, I hardly remember it… but she had these characters that she used all the time. I think they must have been people she used to know. The stories were about princess Buffy, who was actually a warrior… but, I don’t remember…”

William stared at her a moment. “You want to know the truth?” She nodded. He shook his head and with a sad chuckle, said, “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I don’t understand…” the girl said again.

“Have you ever heard the word, ‘Slayer’?”

Jordan looked at the man in confusion. “Should I have?”

William shook his head again and looked down to the tabletop. “I can’t do this,” he groaned.

He stood as if to leave, but the girl grabbed his hand. “You have to! …You’re the only one.”

He looked down at her, seeming to debate with himself. Then, with a sigh and an eye-roll, he regained his seat, glaring across the table once more. “Do you believe in monsters?”

Jordan stared at him in shock for a moment, and then laughed, a beautiful tinkling sound that echoed through the open room. “What?”

“Ghosts? Werewolves?” He lowered his voice and leaned in closer. “…Vampires?”

She laughed again. “What—vampires? I’m _not_ a kid anymore,” she told him, a twinkle in her eye, laughing at the absurd man.

William was quite serious though, and he looked away to the shadows, drinking his beer, and ignoring the girl across from him, who poked him or asked him a question every once in a while. Jordan finally gave up, not receiving any response.

They sat for nearly an hour; William, it seemed, was content to sit there for eternity, and Jordan had nothing better to do.

She was sipping at the vile liquid William had given her, when he suddenly straightened in his seat and glared at the open doorway, senses blazing, a vicious look on his features.

Then, a blood-curdling scream rang out through the night, and was quickly silenced. Jordan’s eyes darted about the bar in fear, but the only action the few other patrons made was to scoot further away from the door. “Wha… what was that?” she asked, rising from her seat. Receiving no answer, she began heading for the door. “We can’t just stay here; someone could be hurt…”

But William grabbed her arm tightly before she could run off. “It’s too late, luv,” he told her in a sad voice of warning.

“This town really is…” but her voice drifted off.

“Evil?” William asked carefully.

Jordan turned back to look at him. “Haunted.”

William nodded. Then he sighed. “I wasn’t made for this…” Then, seeming to have made a decision, he stood. “C’mon,” he instructed, waltzing back toward the entrance.

Once again Jordan grabbed up her bag to run after him. “Where are we going?”

William pivoted to meet her eyes and smiled. “For a drive.”  
   
=

A few blocks away, William pulled a tarp off an ancient, black Desoto, opening the passenger door for the young girl. Jordan smiled weakly, sliding within the dusty automobile.

William started the car and spent a few minutes under the hood, cursing and swearing and beating on the engine until he was finally satisfied with its condition and jumped in beside Jordan, forcing the car into gear and taking off down the alley.

“Where are we going?” Jordan demanded, settling her bag more firmly on her lap.

William turned to look at her a moment, studying, evaluating, before returning his attention to the road. “L.A.”

Jordan turned to him in surprise. “Los Angeles? Why?”

William did not answer her question directly, instead taking time to decide on his answer. “There are people there… who can help you more than I can.”

“People who knew my mother?”

William nodded. “A few. Your mother was right. You should never have come to Sunnydale.”

Jordan cocked a finely delineated eyebrow. “Because of what’s here? Or because of you?”

William sighed as he pulled onto the highway. “Both.”  
   
=

They drove in silence for all of five minutes, but Jordan could not control herself. “Do you know anything about my grandparents?”

William looked shocked for a moment. “Your mum never told you about Joyce?”

“Joyce?”

“Your grandmum,” the man explained. “A great lady… great lady. She was a fine woman Joyce was, and always treated me better ‘n most. Made the best hot chocolate,” he smiled fondly, “With the little marshmallows…”

Jordan frowned. “That’s impossible. She died before Buffy did; how could you have known her? You couldn’t have been more than a boy…”

William turned his attention to her, still keeping an eye on the road. “You really want to know about your family?” His tone darkened, lowering to an intense rumble as he glared at the girl beside him with extreme severity. “If you really want to know what happened, then forget everything you ever thought you knew, cause the world you inhabit is a fairytale compared to the hell we lived in.”

Jordan watched and listened in wide-eyed fear to the man who spoke in a deadly dangerous voice of impossible things. “Forget everything you know about Heaven and Hell, about good and evil, about all those fairytales that grown-ups don’t believe in, because it’s all true: magic, monsters, the mayhem of a murderous world, and your family lived in the thick of it. Your aunt was the Slayer, and your mum… she wasn’t even real.”

William returned his full attention to the road, but kept up the narrative. “You came here for what? Expectin’ ta find some little family secret? Washed up conspiracies about runaway children and alcoholic parents? Oh, we got that too, believe you me, but all the dramas of a normal life were white noise compared to what we lived day after day.”

“Stop,” Jordan said in a shaky voice, raising a hand. “Please, stop the car. Let me out.”

William turned to her with a smile. “What? This close to Sunnydale in the middle of the night? Not likely. I’m not stopping till we get to L.A., where Angel and the goody good Hyperion staffers can take care of little orphan Jordan.”

“Don’t call me that,” she whispered sadly, but then perked up again. “What’s a Hyperion? And who’s Angel?”

“Oh, bloody hell…”  
   
=

“I still haven’t eaten anything.”

“When was the last time you ate?” William sighed.

“This morning.”

“Well, I got bourbon in the glove box, but you can wait another hour for food.”

Jordan pouted, and didn’t open the glove box. “Tell me more about my grandma?” she asked softly, respectfully. “How did she die?”

William grimaced, but only with sadness. “Joyce was a beautiful, exuberant woman who relished fine art, and loved her daughters more than life itself. She would have done anything for her girls, if she thought it was best.” William smiled over at Jordan. “You have her nose.”

Jordan wrinkled up her face and crossed her eyes, trying to peer down at the feature. “Is that good or bad?”

“It’s a lovely nose, nothing to be ashamed of, and you’ve got Joyce’s smile, can light up a room with that you can. But you’ve got your mum’s eyes. And your aunt’s hair.”

Jordan pulled at the long strands, examining the wavy blond locks. “I’ve always liked my hair…” she whispered.

“Joyce… was a brave woman She would go through hell for her kids, and she was beautiful and intelligent, not unlike her daughters, though she could be simple-minded at times, blinded by love and logic you see… Anyway. She was sick. There wasn’t anything anyone could do, and that tore a hole in all of our hearts, watching her waver in and out… And for a while there, she was fine, but then… gone.”

When William stopped, Jordan asked, “Cancer?”

He nodded. “Aneurysm… All those trips to the hospital, all the crying and praying, and none of it did any good in the end, cause you can’t fight something you can’t see, and when she died, we all shared the insanity of grief… for a short while.”

“ 'We all?' Who all?”

“Buffy’s friends, but together, they were all family. In the end, closer than any… well. Yes, they were your mum’s friends.”

Jordan twisted within her seat, leaning forward and pleading with her big blue-green eyes. “Please! You have to tell me something! At least their names…”

There was a growl, but then the man answered, “Well, first of all there’s your mum, how old were you when she passed?”

“Five.”

“Ah, then you must remember some things.”

Jordan nodded. “I remember her as very beautiful, but I don’t know if it’s because she actually was, or just the way I remember her. She seemed so thin… but her voice was so sweet. She told me wonderful stories, and sometimes she sang… She was always happy when she was with me or dad, but sometimes, when I saw her sitting alone, she looked so sad…”

William nodded. “She was a tough little one, Dawn was. She was a bit annoyin’ at times though, always trying to live up to the image of big sis, you know? And it was tough. She loved to write, I understand…”

“She always wrote in her journals,” Jordan agreed, “But after she died, I never saw them again…”

“It’s probably for the best. You should have gone off with the social workers, lived a normal life.”

Jordan glared.

“Yes well, then there’s the boy she had a crush on, Xander. He was Buffy’s age, you understand—they all were—and it was puppy love for quite a while there. Not too surprising: the whelp wasn’t bad looking, and he was always there for Dawn, always. Would’ve given—” William cut himself off. “Well, his sense of humor kept us laughin’ instead o’ cryin’ more often ‘n not. He had a good heart. And he had a girlfriend.”

“Oh?”

“Anya. There was a demon-bitch if I ever knew one… She had no concept of tact or social rules. She was honest to the point of tears and spoke her opinion no matter what. But she loved that boy, she did. Devoted and loving to the end… and in the end, quite selfless… Xan and An, they were made for each other. She kept his head level and he brightened her soul.”

“It sounds so romantic…”

William grinned at the girl. “Oh it was,” he agreed.

“What happened to them?”

William’s features drained of animation and he stared coldly at the road. “They died.”

Sensing that she wouldn’t be hearing anymore about Xander or Anya from the man, Jordan asked, “Who else?”

“Xander’s and Buffy’s best friend, Willow. Now, none of these kids had easy lives, but she was the most kind, caring girl I ever met, filled with love and passion. She had this beautiful hair like fire, to make up for her passive attitude I imagine, but she grew more into herself as the years passed. And she, too, was devoted to a partner. She’d had a boyfriend, Oz, but after that, she fell in love for good, with another young girl named Tara. Of course, everyone was shocked for a while, but they got over it. Willow and Tara were quite a pair. Tara was so frightened of not being accepted to the little troupe, but she and Willow were so completely in love, it didn’t much matter one way or another. But Willow loved her, so of course she was welcome. A quiet girl, but kind and good.”

“Did they die too?”

“Not till much later.”

“Oh… Was there anyone else?”

“The odd man out.”

“Huh?”

“All these young Californian children had to have a guiding hand. Rupert Giles was their mentor, their father, their leader, their hero. He was an old Brit like myself.”

“How on earth did…?”

“Things just happen,” William growled wearily. “And it’s a good thing too. He was their rock, their wisdom, their guiding star, and he was so devoted to Buffy…”

“Why?”

William was growing frustrated with questions he didn’t want to answer. “Because!” he ground out harshly.

“Oh that’s mature.”

“I can’t explain it,” William sighed, forcing the anger to drain away as he’d schooled himself to do so long ago. He softened as he continued though. “But anyone who ever saw Buffy would be; she was fire and light, and hope and youth and beauty, a powerful woman balancing the weight of the unforgiving world on her shoulders.”

Jordan frowned. “You’re really weird, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told, maybe not in so many words…”

After a moment, Jordan matter-of-factly observed, “You loved her.”

“What?!” William blurted out his shock.

“Buffy. I don’t know how or why, but you did.”

“You’re too smart for your own good, girl.”

“So I’ve been told, not in so many words…”

William rolled his eyes. “Well we’re almost there… thank God…”  
   
=

William slammed his door shut and gestured dramatically with open arms at the huge white building. “There it is! The helpers of the hopeless!”

Jordan looked with confusion at the hotel as she shut her own door.

“What? Too big? Too white?” William asked, lighting a cigarette.

The girl frowned at him. “Those things ‘ll kill ya you know…”

William grinned a feral smile. “Not bloody likely.”

Jordan set her bag on the hood of the car and dug through it, finally coming up with a piece of paper. She handed it to William. “That’s _this_ address, isn’t it?”

William examined the dainty handwriting. “Figures,” he said, blowing out a lungful of smoke. “Well, let’s hope someone’s awake.”

The pair opened the old iron gate to the courtyard and skipped up the steps to peer in the double doors. “Light’s on,” William proclaimed, flinging open the doors with a bang and striding in to the lobby. “’Ey! Where’s the hostess? Where’s the bellhop? I want service!” William demanded of the empty chamber in as loud a voice as he could manage.

Jordan peered around his wiry frame to take in the sight of the well-furnished hotel, in awe of the place both her mother had sent her and William had brought her. Something didn’t seem quite right though. “This isn’t really a hotel, is it?” she asked.

“Hardly,” William agreed, strolling up to the counter and then back to the center of the lobby.

Finally, a faint tap-tap could be heard coming from a back hall.

Jordan watched an old man leaning on a cane sweep into the room with a stately walk, proud shoulders, head held high. He glared unhappily at the darkly dressed man, but the twinkle in his eyes belied his stern looks. “Oh for goodness’ sake,” he proclaimed unhappily in an English accent. “Spike? Can’t you bloody well pick up a telephone? Give an old man a ring before you give him a heart attack.” 

He smiled though and came up to shake hands with William.

“Spike?” Jordan asked. “Where’d you get a name like that?”

“Long story…” both Englishmen breathed out in a tired sigh. 

“And who is your young friend?” the man asked.

“Jordan,” Spike answered briefly.

“Ah, I am Wesley Wyndham-Price, it is an honor to meet you, little lady,” Wesley introduced himself, extending a hand to be met by Jordan’s own.

“Jordan Bay,” she answered.

“What’s going on? A young man with caramel colored skin asked as he wandered in. 

“Nothing I can’t handle, I’m sure,” Wesley replied. “Do go back to bed, Charles, before your Aunt chews my head off.

“I’m twenty-three,” the young man reminded him. 

“Yes, well, we all know Cordelia will still chastise _me_ if she finds _you_ out of bed.”

“I’m not sick anymore—”

Wesley pointed strictly to the doorway. “Back to bed, young man. Before her highness sees you. Unless you want to have a chat with your mother?”

“Goodnight,” Charles said over his shoulder, already disappeared, back to bed apparently.

Jordan hadn’t noticed the handsome dark-haired man, now halfway down the staircase, dressed in a black sweater and black trousers, hair gelled up in an old-fashioned style. “Someone wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asked, reaching the main floor.

“Angel,” Wesley greeted him. “This is Jordan. But neither she nor Spike have explained quite why they’ve disturbed our peaceful evening.”

“ _You're_ Angel?” Jordan exclaimed, letting her bag drop to the floor. “But that’s a girl’s name.”

Spike laughed and slapped Angel’s shoulder in a friendly manner. “She’s a quick one, you gotta be careful.”

Angel ignored the man, turning to Jordan with great severity. “How can I help you?” he asked.

“Uh…” Looking the man in the face was difficult, and Jordan suddenly lost her nerve.

“She’s researching her family,” Spike put in.

“We don’t do genealogies…” a tired feminine voice called out, emerging from a back hallway. The older woman spared a small glance to Spike and nodded to Angel before whacking Wesley on the arm.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“For letting Charles up and out of bed. He’s still sick.”

Wesley rubbed at his arm unhappily. “I sent him back,” he whined.

The woman’s eyes lit up at the sight of the new face. “A customer?! I’m Cordelia Chase,” she introduced herself, shaking Jordan’s hand.

“Jordan Bay,” Jordan said, overwhelmed at this foreign place and so many unfamiliar faces.

“Now what’s this about ‘family history’?” Cordelia asked warily.

Wordlessly, Jordan turned questioningly to Spike, who guffawed and rolled his eyes. “I’m not your bloody keeper, I’ve known you for three hours, don’t look to me; _they're_ the ones who _want_ to help you.”

“Don’t mind Spike. He’s an asshole,” Cordelia said frankly, only to be reprimanded in stereo from Wesley and Angel. 

“Cordy?!”

“No,” Jordan said. “She’s right.”

“Huh, she _is_ a bright girl,” Angel said, not hiding his smile at Spike’s glare.

“William—Spike… brought me here cause he said someone here might have known my mother.”

Three heads nodded for her to continue. “Dawn Bay.”

Three jaws dropped. “Not…” Cordelia was the first to recover. “Not Dawn Summers?”

“She disappeared…” Wesley mumbled, staring at the girl before him.

Angel took several steps toward her and, like Spike had, took the girl’s face in cold, gentle hands. “Buffy’s niece…” he whispered with a smile, drawing the confused girl into a bear hug.

A muffled, “Personal space… _personal space_!” emanated from within Angel’s arms.

He released the girl to look at her once more. “Welcome home,” Angel said.

“What? I don’t… How do you…?”

“Don’t ask,” Cordelia warned.

“Then, then you’ll tell me? Tell me about my family?”

“Anything,” Angel agreed.

“Spike!” Only Wesley’s call alerted the others to the man sneaking out the door.

“Where are you going?” Jordan demanded nervously.

“Think I’m staying with this bunch of poofters, you’re mad. I’m outta here.”

“But…”

“What?” Spike asked. “They’ll take care of you, Jordan.” 

Angel nodded and called out, “Thank you,” to the retreating form. And with that, Spike was gone.

Jordan stared sadly at the doorway, but soon returned her attention to three adoring faces.

“Story time!” Cordelia shouted happily, pulling Angel and Jordan with her to a back room that served as a living room. “Wesley! Tea!” she demanded of the old man who sighed and limped off to the kitchen.

Angel looked pleadingly to the woman, who caught his eye. “Uh… maybe I could get some food.”

“I’m starving!” Jordan proclaimed, looking hopefully to Cordelia. 

“Food it is, then,” she agreed, disappearing, leaving the two alone.

“So you’re Angel. And you’re going to tell me what happened to my family?”

“If that’s what you want,” Angel agreed.

“Then tell me.”

The man nodded, but he stared at the fireplace a long time, without a sign of moving. Not wanting to push him, Jordan, too, examined the small fire, crackling away within its contained space. She’d never seen a fireplace before, not a real working one. But after Wesley had delivered the tea and gone off to bed, and after Cordelia had returned with oven-warmed pizza and been shooed away by Angel, he finally turned to gaze at the girl happily munching on her dinner. “In every generation, there is a Chosen One; she alone will stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. She is the Slayer…”


	3. White William

Time: May 1, 2243

Sammy Rodgers was frightened. She’s a normal kid: a few good friends, decent grades, great family. She’s fifteen, just broke up with a not-so-serious boyfriend, and in the year 2243, life was good. Not exactly sci-fi, but stuff was certainly easier than it might have been for ancestors who’d only dreamt of computers that fit in a pocket. And until her teenage years, she had indeed been a normal girl, without true fear or regret or grief. But then she started noticing things, like this strange man she seemed to see out of the corner of her eye sometimes, like when she was walking home from the movie-plex with her friends, or dashing through the rain from the supermall to the car, or any number of places… but always for just an instant, and always at night. 

The other night, she saw him outside, just off school grounds, at the Spring Fling. Tallish. Dark clothes, so dark and so hidden in shadow, she couldn’t see quite what he was wearing. Long blond hair tied back at the nape of his neck, seeing his face for the first time, so angular, so pale, with such piercing eyes. Eyes bright with life, dark with knowledge. She’d blinked and he’d disappeared. But then, she’d sworn she’d seen him on the street when she’d looked out her window that night, and not for the first time. 

In their new home near the country, she could see the stars. They were invisible in the bright lights and pollution of the city. She’d never seen them until they’d moved out here four years before, and now, every night when there were no clouds, she’d spend a few moments just staring at the sky, alive with the sparkling diamond-like stars. And in a flash of movement from the streetlamp, she saw the dark figure dart from shadow to shadow, and right before he disappeared behind the trees across the street, he turned, and stared right at her. Then, he was gone. 

Letting her fear and paranoia get the better of her, she dashed out of her room and downstairs, where her mother, Teresa Rodgers, sat curled up on the big plush chair reading an old book. The woman grew alarmed at her daughter’s frantic footsteps and quickly set the novel aside as her teenaged daughter rushed into her arms. “Mom! Mom! Yer gonna think I’m crazy, but he’s following me, and he’s there, and then he’s not and I don’t know, but he’s creepy and I’ve seen him, I’ve seem him!” Teresa cradled her daughter’s head and rubbed soothing circles into her back, murmuring words of comfort until the girl finally settled down, the tears stopped, begging for mom to make everything alright. 

Teresa smiled as she brushed back the girl’s long, strawberry blond hair. “Hush, hush now Sammy…” she cooed. “Just calm down, it’s alright, Sweetheart.” When it seemed Sammy had regained her composure, Teresa led her to the kitchen and put on a pot of hot water for tea.

Just sitting in the warm kitchen, letting her nerves calm, Sammy thought back to all the questions she’d asked her mother, why they still made tea the old-fashioned way, why they even drank tea when all the kids at school preferred hot chocolate or coffee or all those other fancy drinks, and she thought back to her mother’s response, which had become so typical of nearly every question. “Family tradition, sweetie.” Sammy liked the little traditions though, and so she rarely complained and was extremely grateful for the comfort of the hot mug warming her cold hands, for the steam washing over her face, and the bitter herbs that burned her tongue and soothed her stomach. 

Her mother, with her own cup of tea, sat across from her daughter at the kitchen table and for a moment they were content in the silence, but then Teresa began to speak. “Now I know this hard for you honey, but I need you to just listen to me okay, no interruptions?” 

Unsure, Sammy nodded, trusting her mother. 

“I mean it, not a word…” 

“O- _kay_!” Sam promised. 

“There’s a man: tall, with a dark coat. He has a strange, pale face, and deep blue eyes… long dirty blond hair in a ponytail. You see him outside, at night, following you.” 

Sam gaped at her mother. 

“I see him too, though mostly when I was younger…” Teresa admitted. “I know this is… hard to believe, but you’ve seen him yourself, it’s almost like he isn’t there when he is, like he’s in the world, but not part of it… yes, I see him. And you know your Uncle Nick and Grandpa Marshall? They see him too. And so did Marshall’s father. And so did his father’s mother. Believe it or not, and believe what you will, but… he’s a sort of ghost or spirit that watches over our family. I can name for you all our ancestors for the past two-hundred something years; they’ve all seen White William.” 

“White William?” Sammy asked in awe. 

Teresa nodded. “I know it’s kind of creepy at first, but he’s just here to protect us, to guide us.” 

“But… But why?” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know, honey.” 

Sammy thought long and hard for many minutes. “So, you’re saying… I sort of have a guardian angel?” 

Teresa smiled. “Yeah, I think you could say that.” 

“A guardian angel who haunts the school’s dance parties and watches my bedroom window. You do know that’s really weird, right?” 

Teresa furrowed her brows and asked, “How often do you see him?” 

“Well,” Sammy thought back. “Actually, I think the first time was when I was like five, now that I think about it. You know the fire down the street from our old house, and I ran outside to watch? I think I saw him there…” 

Teresa nodded. “I saw him that night, too.” 

“And then, like six months ago, I started seeing him at night, now it’s like everyday— every _night_ ,” Sammy corrected herself. 

“Every night?!” Teresa was shocked. “I think I may have seen him a dozen times my whole life! Nick saw him less than that! Dad—my dad—claims to have seen him more often, but…” 

“Great, our whole family and he fixates on me. But how…? I mean, two hundred years? What about other family? I know I have cousins…” 

“On your father’s side,” Teresa agreed. “My family has always been small. One, two kids at the most, and not all of them have children. Now you can just tell Uncle Nick will never settle down, have a family, and he hasn’t seen the ghost in years…” 

“Oh, but it keeps an eye on me all hours of every night. Great.” 

Teresa shook her head. “It’s a blessing.” 

She went on to tell her daughter of ancestors who had been saved by White William, rescued from fires and other accidents, kept out of harm’s way, even guided when lost. He truly was a guardian spirit. 

“White William…” Sammy whispered. 

“I only know a little about the name. About two-hundred years ago, he was just called William, and it was said that he spoke quite often to our family, but as the years passed, he drifted further and further away. One of our great-great-however-many-greats grandmothers was named Lily, and she was quite frightened the first time she saw him. She’s the one that added White to William, and so he’s been called ever since.” 

Sammy was uncharacteristically silent. “This is for real, isn’t it?” 

Teresa nodded. 

=

Life went on, and after that Sammy continued to see William, but was no longer afraid. She felt safe knowing he was around and looked forward to the glimpses. Once in a while, he’d be closer, and she’d smile at him. Once, she swore he smiled back. 

Her mother said that Sammy’s father knew about the ghost, but didn’t believe in it. Sammy talked to Uncle Nick and Grandpa Marshall about the ghost, hearing more stories about him. She never told her friends, though; they’d just tease her. 

And everything was just fine, until her sixteenth birthday, until the dreams started. 

She was terribly frightened… visions of warrior women fighting what could only be called monsters… wielding wooden stakes… kicking demon-ass… and finally dreams of herself doing the same. It had been only a month since they started, and even though she cried and cried and told her mom and uncle and grandpa, none of them knew anything about the strange nightmares that haunted her. 

It had been a month, and Sammy’s dad was away on business. It was late, the TV off, Teresa reading one of her novels, and Sammy doing homework when there was a knock at the door: three solid taps. Odd, considering they had an intercom system and old-fashioned doorbell. Knocking was a tradition that long disappeared from industrial nations. The two exchanged a look and went to the door. The old wooden frame was opened to reveal a man neither of them ever thought would be seen so close, so real, so personal, and definitely _not_ a ghost. 

“May I come in?” asked the specter, worried blue eyes darting between the two of them. Teresa could only stare, but Sammy nodded. Still, the being did not enter. 

“Yes…” Sammy whispered. 

The man nodded a thank you and stepped over the threshold. “You’re…” Teresa said. 

And a charming smile with a hint of mischief lit up the man’s face. He took Teresa’s hand in his cold one and laid a kiss there. “William at you service,” he confirmed with a small bow. He turned to Sammy and did the same, kissing the back of her hand like some gentleman in a romantic story from ages ago. He did not let her hand go, however, as he stared down into her eyes and said, in his Cockney accent, “You’ve been having dreams, Samantha.” She nodded wordlessly. “Nightmares.” She nodded again. 

Finally, he dropped her hand, and then turned to Teresa. “Do you have hot chocolate?” 

That seemed to break the tension, if not the magic, that seemed to surround the three of them and Teresa allowed a small chuckle, though still not quite capable of movement or speech apparently as she pointed to the kitchen. 

“Lead the way,” said William, and that finally spurred the woman on. William gestured for Sammy to go before him and the three sat at the kitchen table, sipping hot chocolate. 

Finally, Sammy broke the silence. “You don’t drink tea?”

William just made a face at the idea and Sammy giggled in response. “You… you aren’t really a ghost?” 

“No,” William agreed. “Not a ghost, not a spirit.” He laughed. “Certainly not an angel.” 

“Then…?” 

“All in good time.” 

Sammy pouted. 

“I can tell you about your dreams, Samantha, but I’m afraid you aren’t going to like it.” She and her mother exchange a worried glance. “Would you believe me if I said you had a destiny?” 

“Right now, I’d believe just about _anything_ you said.” 

William nodded, a grim smile on his face. “Well, Samantha. Believe me: you are the Chosen One.” 

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Teresa interrupted. 

“And well you shouldn’t,” William agreed sadly. 

“Chosen? Chosen for what?” 

William sighed and set aside his mug, clasping his hands and looking straight across the table at Sam. “In every generation there is a Chosen One; she alone will stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. She is the Slayer.” 

Sammy’s eyes bulged and she pointed to herself as if to say, ‘Me?!’ 

William nodded. “I’m afraid you can’t change destiny. The path that lies before you is dark and twisted, fraught with dangers you’ve only glimpsed in your darkest nightmares.” At the disbelieving looks, he continued. “Believe me. I know. I’ve seen seven Slayers in my lifetime. They fight evil. And they die young.” He said this with a pointed look to Sam. 

“This… this is impossible.” 

William shook his head. “Not impossible; all too real, I’m afraid.” 

At the man’s words, fear descended. “Get out of my house,” Teresa snarled. 

William nodded. He stood, but instead of heading back out to the hallway, turned to exit through the backdoor. He stood out in the darkness of the backyard, watching Sam stare at him through the open door. He shouted through the night. “Come with me, Samantha! I’ll prove it to you! Only you can stop yourself, and you don’t want to! The only way to survive is to accept your destiny!” 

Teresa grabbed her daughter’s arm, but a fierce strength broke her grasp and Sam ran out into the night. She raced up to William and the two looked back at Teresa. “She’ll be safe with me,” William promised. 

Torn, Teresa watched them disappear into the night. 

“And I’ll bring her back before sunrise!” he called over his shoulder as they disappeared into the tree line, the edge of the woods behind the house. 

They walked until they reached a clearing. Sam stared in wonder at the assortment of weapons laid out on the ground, chopped off tree trunks, and fallen trees. William stripped off his long coat and stood before her. 

“Please don’t call me Samantha,” Sammy said. 

William nodded and smiled. “Sam?” 

The girl agreed with a happy nod. 

“Then you have to call me by _my_ nickname.” 

“You have a nickname?” 

William smiled evilly. 

“What is it?” 

“Spike.” 

Sam didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “How on earth did you get a name like that?” 

Spike sobered quickly. “All in good time.” Suddenly, he threw a wooden stake at Sam. If she had stood perfectly still, it would have clipped off a lock of her flowing hair, but suddenly, she found herself holding the weapon, not knowing she had done so. Spike approached the girl, throwing a few slow, light punches and kicks that never would have landed, but she dodged or blocked them easily. Spike got a little too close and found himself on the ground, Sam over him, the stake at his heart. She was shocked and frightened and disgusted, but Spike held her in place. 

“You _are_ the Slayer,” he said in a feral whisper, and she knew it was true. Sam did not move, but to drop the stake to the side. 

“You knew seven Slayers?” 

Spike nodded. “I killed two of them. And one I fell in love with.” 

“You… you killed them?” 

Suddenly, his features shifted and Sam found herself staring into a demon’s face with ridged forehead,   
golden eyes, and, most distressing of all, fanged canines. 

She shrieked and jumped off him. “What…?” 

“I’m a vampire.” 

“You’re a…?” 

Spike stood and smirked as his features melted back to those of an attractive young man. “But, I’m a _good_ vampire… haven’t always been… but that’s a long story.” Sam could only stare. Spike nodded as he paced easily around the weapons, lighting a cigarette. “I understand. Your life has changed forever. But I can help, and I can fight with you, not against you. There’s much to learn. And much to fight. Family to face, and enemies too, but you’re not alone. I will be at your side until the sun claims me, that I promise. And… you’ll have a guide,” he vowed. 

“A… a guide?” 

“A man will come. To train you. To teach you. To watch over you, as I have always done.” Spike stopped and turned his back. 

Facing her again, he flicked the cigarette away and held a sword in his hand. “This is a short sword. You want to hold it here like this, yes that’s it…” 

So Sam could only listen and learn and two hours later they returned to the house, surprised to find a young gentleman sipping tea with Teresa in the kitchen. The two entered and he stood, extending a hand to the girl. He shook her hand and introduced himself. “I am Peter Wyndham-Price. You are Miss Samantha Rodgers?” 

She nodded and his attention shifted to the vampire. 

He was a bit nervous but extended his hand. “And you must be…” 

Spike smirked and met Peter’s hand with a firm grip. “Spike,” he acknowledged.


	4. To Shanshu in Delaware

Time: December 21, 2276

The pale man on the corner stood staring up into the electric street lamp, still and seemingly distant, before he sighed and turned bright blue eyes to the ground for a moment in sorrow. After a minute spent in contemplation, he looked up with a new sharpness in his gaze and took a deep breath of the cold winter air. He let out the breath, but no mist appeared in the cold air, nor did he seem chilled, even as pale hands were shoved in deep pockets of an old leather jacket. 

He turned and strode quickly down the sidewalk, but it seemed he had no destination in mind, as his eyes quickly darted from shop window to shop window, studying the various objects within in as much detail as he studied his other surroundings, from rooftop to starless sky, but mostly any people that crossed his path, though those were few and far between, as most were wisely home for the night and those who were still out and about moved out of the man’s way when they saw him coming.

He didn’t seem to mind though, as he kept moving, eventually out of downtown and on to a more residential area, lined with quiet little houses, walks and drives swept clear of the light dusting of snow, a few dogs in various yards, many Christmas lights and other decorations lining the eves and porches. There were still a few children out playing in the cold, but most had long disappeared within the comfort of home for a warm meal and bed. 

The man observed all this with detachment, plowing through the neighborhood or sliding past watchful eyes, moving steadily through the district to the richer part of town, where houses were farther apart, often lined in neat little hedgerows or low stone walls, the holiday decorations more subdued if apparent at all, and much darker as the number of street lamps also fell. 

Still he kept on, marching up the slight rise of a hill to a bend in the old road where he turned down a narrow lane marked 'Hillman Drive' and continued his steady pace. On he went for near half an hour until the sound of an approaching car stopped him. He turned to watch as a shiny white police car pulled up to the curb beside him. He sighed long-sufferingly as a fat old policeman clambered out and said, “Hey you there! You live around here?”

The pale man turned to face the officer with a small smile. “No. Not as such,” he replied in a growling English accent.

“Then what business, may I ask, have you got round these parts?” the policeman demanded.

The Englishman shrugged. “Jus’ out for a walk. Mindin’ my own business. Though I think I might have a friend livin’ round ‘ere. Thought I’d look him up.”

“Ah. Well, so long as there’s no funny business. Maybe I’ll just have a look at your ID.”

The man covered a scowl as he dug through his pocket, finally producing a tattered wallet from which he withdrew a nicely faked identification tag. He handed this over to the other man without ado. 

“William Harris,” the policeman grumbled aloud as he read the small print on the computer screen within his car after sliding the card through a scanner. “‘10-20-2249’… From London, eh?”

William rolled his eyes. “Aye.”

“Hm… Well, you just keep outta trouble there, young man,” the policeman instructed, handing the ID back to its owner.

William nodded his thanks and took off down the street before he could be accosted further. Finally he came within view of a large white house, settled cozily among what seemed to be a small forest of pine trees. He cocked his head at the mailbox, which bore a gilded engraving that read, 'Standish Residence.'

“Standish,” he scoffed aloud to himself. “What kind of name is that? Wanker…”

He set off down the old-fashioned cobblestone driveway to the large front door, painted dark green and adorned with a simple wreath decorated with golden balls and red ribbon. William snooped about the front porch a bit, but saw no sign of security cameras or the like, and he quickly snuck over to peer in a front window, making a small gagging noise in the back of his throat at the tableau he saw there.

A beautiful woman sat near the fireplace in a fluffy soft blue robe in a rocking chair, cradling a baby in her arms and whispering softly to it as two children sat on the couch in front of the telescreen munching on cookies and arguing over one of those trivialities that siblings are so fond of. The family dog, some sort of large spaniel in multi colored whites and browns, lay on a finely woven rug at the mother’s feet, and a cat perched loftily on the back of the couch, ignoring the occasional stroke from the little girl who sat beside her brother there. Soon enough, a man entered the room. He was tall and dark, but smiled brightly as he tousled his older son’s dark hair and gave his redheaded daughter a kiss on the cheek. He moved to kneel beside the woman with equally stunning tresses. He first gave the sleeping dog a pat on the head and then a gentle kiss to the babe’s forehead. He knelt a long while there, watching his family happily.

“Poufter…” the man at the window sneered. He waited some time until the baby fell asleep and the two parents moved away and up the stairs to put it to rest. William then knocked boldly on the door.

He waited as scrambling feet thumped on the thick carpets within until they reached the door and it opened, two pairs of eyes staring up and out at him, one a dark brown with equally dark hair, and the other the red-haired girl with green eyes. “Hi there, ducks!” William addressed the children. “Your Da at home t’night?”

The two exchanged looks and then nodded. The boy backed timidly away from the stranger, but the girl opened the door bravely and stood to her full height, glaring up at the strange man on her doorstep. The boy was older, near ten, but obviously very shy, while the younger girl, seven at most, seemed the more outgoing and probably the leader of the household. “He’s upstairs with Mom and David,” she readily supplied. 

“Buffy!” her brother warned in a whispered hiss. “We’re not supposed to talk to strangers!”

“But he’s looking for dad.” She answered simply and turned back to face the man who now stared down in awe at the girl.

“Wha… What’s your name?” 

“Elizabeth Winifred Standish! But everyone calls me Buffy!” The man just shook his head.

“Hey!” the boy interrupted. “Don’t make fun of my sister’s name!”

William smiled softly at them both. “Look’s like you got a decent brother there, Buffy. He’ll stick up for you; won’t have to worry about those bullies at school.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, he’s okay,” but she said this softly with a fond smirk toward her brother.

“And what’s _his_ name?” the stranger inquired.

“Buffy, don’t you dare…” he warned her, still standing away from the door and looking nervously at the newcomer.

“Oh, that’s Wesley William Standish.”

“Huh. Funny. My name’s William…”

“Oh? And you know Dad?” Buffy asked. “Wes, go tell Dad that William…” she turned back to him. “What’s your last name?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Don’t be silly,” Buffy said haughtily. “Everyone has a last name.”

“I don’t,” William bragged.

Little Buffy stuck her nose in the air at him and thought for a moment, as if weighing the possibility. “Fine,” she answered after a moment. “Go tell Dad William’s here to see him.”

“No, no,” William said lightly. “Use my nickname.”

“Oh, okay. What’s that?” Buffy asked innocently. 

“Spike.”

The young girl cocked her head. “That’s a funny name.”

“Buffy!” Wesley hissed again. “That’s not nice.”

“Well, it’s true!” she debated before waving her brother off. “Go tell Dad some guy named Spike is here to see him.”

Wesley glared dubiously at the man a moment before he turned to head up the stairs, which were right across from the front door. “Okay, but don’t you hurt my sister,” he demanded.

Spike held up his hands subserviently and answered, “Wouldn’t dream of it, mate.”

Wesley glared at him a moment more before shuffling up the white shag carpet to the second floor. “Now then,” Spike said, rubbing his hands together vigorously and grinning madly down at the little hostess. “Might I come in? It’s more than chilly out here, and it probably isn’t that good an idea to leave the door open…”

Buffy frowned at him suspiciously. “My Dad said to never invite anyone in…”

“Oh really?” Spike asked innocently with raised eyebrows. “That’s right smart of him, you know, but there’s nothing stopping me from coming right in, you know, not if I really wanted to. But if it’s just the same, I shouldn’t like to barge into a friend’s home without a proper welcome.”

The girl furrowed her brow and bit her lip, trying to work through the man’s accent and words to catch the meaning underneath. After a moment she seemed to come to a conclusion but didn’t seem quite convinced yet.

William made a great show of rubbing his arms and breathing into his hands in tradition of trying to warm myself. “I’ve spent all night walking here. Boy, sure could use a hot chocolate… Say, you got any?”

“Hot chocolate!” Buffy squealed. “Yeah! And whipped cream, too! I’m too young to make it, though,” she confessed in quiet dejection.

“Aw, but I can. Why don’t I come in and we’ll have some together till your Da comes down?” he asked sweetly.

“Oh… all right,” Buffy agreed, taking the bait of chocolate. “You can come in.”

“Thanks,” William said, not quite hiding his feral grin as he stepped over the threshold and little Buffy closed the green oaken door behind him.

She led the way to the kitchen, chattering all the while. “…but he’s never mentioned you before. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone talk like you before, where are you from? Dad’s from California, but his parents were from Ireland, is that where you’re from? Mom’s parents were Irish too, but she’s never been there, Ireland I mean.”

“Yeah? What’s yer mum’s name?”

“Linette. It’s Celtic.”

“Yeah…” Spike let the girl talk on as he bustled about the kitchen, putting water to heat in the new-fangled cooker as Buffy pointed to the high-up cabinet, which housed the chocolate powder.

In only a few moments, the drink was ready, and Spike topped off the mugs with fresh whipped cream. The pair had just sat down when a thundering from above alarmed them and they looked to the ceiling, where a path could be heard as a large someone ran along the upper hall, down the stairs, and into the kitchen, skidding to a halt in front of two stupefied hot chocolate drinkers. “You?! Get out!”

“Ach,” Spike spat easily, carefully setting his drink aside and standing slowly to meet the other eye to eye. “Always so melodramatic you were, you know. What’sa matter? Can’t greet an old friend nice 'n proper like?” Spike asked, smiling widely and spreading his arms wide as if in expectation of a hug.

“Angel?” a soft, mature voice came from the hall. “What’s going on?” The beautiful, red-haired woman stepped softly into the kitchen, a young Wesley cowering behind her.

“Go upstairs,” Angel whispered to his family, gesturing for Buffy to come to him, away from the stranger in their midst.

“Aw, tha’s no way to say hi to an ol’ friend, won’t even introduce me to the Missus? Linette Standish? I’m Spike, knew Angel way back in the day, in’ that right, Peaches?”

“Get out of my home, Spike,” Angel growled menacingly.

Spike folded his arms and leaned up against the counter behind him, observing the humans about him. Little Buffy remained where she was, large mug of hot chocolate half-raised to her mouth as she glanced fearfully between her daddy and Spike. Linette drew Wesley close, shielding him from whatever was happening in her house as the two men stared each other down. And Angel, Angel glared hatefully at the vampire, just moments away from attacking the intruder as his hands clenched and unclenched automatically and his breathing accelerated to a pant.

“I say!” Spike exclaimed. “Nice tan, Ange—” But his observation was cut off as Angel finally lunged at him, one large hand around the smaller man’s throat, the other braced across his chest as he pinned Spike against the counter and kitchen cabinets.

“Angel?!” Linette scolded in her surprise. “Let him down.”

Angel loosened his grip just enough to allow Spike to speak, barely. “What are you doing here?”

“Jus’ came to check up,” Spike choked out. “See if the rumor was true, make sure you were keepin’ out o’ trouble. Guess you finally got your reward, ‘ey?” Spike whispered.

“Angel!” Linette shouted angrily. “What is going on here? I will not have this in my house!”

“Yeah,” Spike breathed out, just loud enough for Angel to hear. “What are you thinking? Such behavior in front of the family…”

Oh so slowly, ever so carefully, Angel released his grip, letting Spike relax against the counter, but he made no motion to move away, staring coldly as the vampire massaged his throat and shot a hurt look at his old grandsire. “Guess I know when a bloke’s not welcome,” he huffed, trying to look subtly recalcitrant. “I’ll be on me way in two tics if ya just let a fellow get a word in before ya throttle ‘im. Don’t suppose you remember a small gift a certain government agency bequeathed on me a few years back? Still got it after all these years, if ya take my meaning. I’m not here to hurt you or your family,” he finally hissed out. “Get a grip Angel; it’s not all blood an’ gore outside yer sanctuary here. What are you doing in bloody _Delaware_ , anyway?”

“Spike,” Angel finally cut off the other man’s words. “You talk too much.”

“And you’re about as talkative as a certain wolfy friend we all once knew. I see not much has changed then? And what’s with the kids, mate? Wesley? _Buffy_? Have you no decency? They’re scarred for life. At least David’s a nice sensible name. If I heard the poor thing was stuck with…” Spike searched for a name, “ _Rupert_ ,” he finally blurted out, “I’d be sure you went round the bend when you turned human.”

“Angel?” Linette finally broke in. “What on _earth_ is he talking about?”

Spike looked with surprise at his old acquaintance. “You haven’t told her?” He burst out laughing obnoxiously for a moment. “This is too rich!” He laughed, still slightly hunched over, recovering from the sudden attack on his person.

“Rumors? How did you find me?” Angel broke in again, this time sounding more nervous than angry.

“I been keepin’ in touch with a certain Council in London. They know all about you. Don’t worry. Their concern with you is over. Believe it or not, they want you right where you are. Outta trouble, outta the picture, period. Angel, they _want_ you to have a good life. Especially a certain friend a mine. Name o’ Peter Wyndham-Price. Family’s been watchin’ you fer years, betcha never knew that.”

Angel stared, dumbfounded.

Spike rolled his eyes. “How’d you think you came so far in this day 'n age? What with all the records and identification, considerin’… well, considerin’ you don’t have a record of birth, drivers’ license, any of it? Never hought it mighta been jus’ a little too easy? Look, it’s no big deal. It’s all over and settled now, right mate? But I found out you were here, couldn’t just let it sit. You know me, I _had_ to drop in, see it fer myself.”

Angel looked like he was almost ready to believe him, and just before Linette could raise her highly confused voice, these kitchen proceedings were interrupted by a clear tone ringing out from the doorbell. “Oh what now,” Angel asked, dropping his head into a hand, the other settling on his hip in a show of frustrated confusion. “Linette, would you take the children and please see to the door, and remember, whoever it is, don’t invite them in…” This last was addressed to Buffy who pouted and finally set down her cup before slipping off her chair and padding after her mother to the front door.

Faint voices echoed down the hallway as the two men in the kitchen eyed each other down. “Wanted to ruffle your feathers,” Spike finally said to break the silence. “Wanted to see it for myself, after years of hearing about it, finally knew you were in the same city, had to come. Had to see. Can’t believe I’m the first. Council keeps a secret well. In fact, they do a whole sight better 'n they used to when it comes to a lot of things,” Spike managed in half-sentences, now that he could approach the living, breathing human before him. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Wesley suddenly poked his head in the room. “Dad? There’s some old guy and a woman here to see Spike.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Spike muttered, whipping his head around in disapproval. “Lead the way, Master Wesley,” he added, indicating the lad to go before him to the front door. The young boy hastened down the hallway, little footsteps pounding against the pristine rug. Spike swaggered half-heartedly after him, Angel close behind. 

“Spike!” This high-pitched reprimand came from the girl waiting at the doorway, no more than twenty with pert little nose in the air, long brown hair pulled back in a sensible ribbon, and mittened fists on her hips. Beside her stood a stately older man, most likely in his late fifties, with arms crossed on his chest, glaring at the vampire. The man’s disapproving posture melted away however, as Angel entered the room behind Spike.

“Angel…” the man muttered, staring with disbelief at the vision before him. Angel’s eyes narrowed as he studied the man, trying to place the familiar looks…

“Yes, this is the legendary Angel. Angel, this is Peter Wyndham-Price and Rebecca Katherine Knightley the third.”

The man still stood, disbelieving, but the girl smiled happily at her introduction. Her frown returned immediately as she now stepped within the house to grab hold of Spike’s forearm and begin dragging him out. “You know you aren’t supposed to be here. Your orders were very clear! Stay off Hillman Drive! Is that so hard?”

“Yes,” Spike argued, pulling free of the girl’s grasp.

“I’m terribly sorry for the intrusion,” the Englishman finally managed to mutter. “He… he was told not to come here, I didn’t want, I mean… I’m sorry.”

Angel nodded at the man, acknowledging his apology. “Why don’t you two come in out of the cold,” he finally said. “Watchers and Slayers are always welcome in my home.”

The two gratefully stepped within, although Peter seemed quite off put. “Really, we aren’t supposed to be here either, the rules laid down concerning you and your family are very clear. We’re not to make contact under any circums—”

“Rules are made to be broken,” Angel said with a small smile. “Peter… may I call you that?”

The man, overwhelmed, merely nodded thankfully.

“And…”

“Becca,” the bubbly Slayer replied.

“Ah. Right. Peter and Becca. This is my family. My wife Linette, and my children, Elizabeth and Wesley. And David, four months old, is upstairs.”

Peter looked in awe at the small boy and Becca smiled down at the girl. “I bet they call you Buffy, huh?” she asked.

Buffy nodded, for once speechless at all the strange goings-on in her house.

For a moment, they all stood around staring at each other until Angel made a decision. “Honey,” he said, taking his wife around the shoulders and leading her to the kitchen, “I know this is odd, and a little late for guests, but would you please make Peter and Becca at home. Make some tea, break out the cookies for a bit while I deal with Spike?”

Linette glared at her husband for a moment and waited before answering. “Fine. But only because I love you. And I expect a big explanation when this is over…”

Angel smiled apologetically at his wife, ushering his family, Peter, and Becca through to the kitchen before turning dark eyes on the cornered vampire, who turned abruptly and marched into the living room, planting himself on the floor by the fire, legs crossed, absently stroking the soft fur of the large dog still dead to the world, spread out on the hearth. Angel sat in the rocking chair, staring down at his grand-childe. 

“They’re right you know,” Spike finally admitted. “I shouldn’t have come. But…” He turned bright blue eyes up to the human. “I had to see! Do you understand?” he asked hopefully.

After a long pause Angel ultimately admitted, “I think so. But I don’t understand what you’re doing with a Slayer and a Watcher in Delaware, taking orders—or not taking orders, as the case may be—from the Watcher’s Council!”

Spike smiled ruefully and shook his head. “Things changed, Angel. After Buffy… Well. Things just changed. I’ve been in touch with the Council for centuries. Just a bunch of people trying to hold the world together, you know. And I’ve been training Slayers for years. Knew Peter way back when. When we trained a girl together. An’ this girl was Dawn’s tenth generation granddaughter. I watched that family for generations. Still do. Hope they don’t have to give up any more of their daughters for the line. I truly do. Now here I am. Becca, she grew up here. We came to visit her family for the holidays.”

Angel couldn’t hide his shock.

“I’m telling you, the Council’s changed. For the better. We keep each other in line. But man, I can’t _believe_ you never told your wife!” Spike declared, standing up to look down at a slightly guilty Angel. “You owe her _something_!”

“I know. I know! I was waiting for the right moment and now… it was done. Over with. I didn’t want to have to explain, to burden my family with a past, with the knowledge that nightmares are real.”

“If you want them to stay alive, you better,” Spike advised. “Some day when little Buffy is all grown up, walking home caught in the dark, a piece of wood or bottle of water might be the difference between life and death!”

Angel stood, suddenly angry again, to glare at the vampire. “You think I don’t know that! You think these thoughts haven’t tormented me every night since I first saw the sun twelve years ago! I know! I know. I just…”

“Well, it’s time,” Spike declared, waltzing out of the den and toward the kitchen.


	5. Gone With the Sun

Time: April 16, 2458

Curly black hair flared in a mane about her as the girl twirled and jumped. Her hand flashed out with startling speed, the wooden stake clutched there plunging into a solid chest that disintegrated to ash in seconds. But the warrior did not stop, turning to meet another opponent. To her unhappy surprise, the monster knocked the finely crafted weapon from her grasp. She shrieked her outrage, sending a tiny fist with incredible strength into the vampire’s stomach. He stumbled back and doubled over in pain and the girl dropped into a roll, coming to stand but four feet from the last of the lot. She circled swiftly round and drove the retrieved stake into the creature’s back. The fifth and last of the coven was dispatched with little trouble and the Slayer took a step back, breathing out her relief. 

“Tracy.”

Blue eyes rolled up in annoyance and Tracy distractedly blew a forever-straying curl from before her pale forehead as she crossed her arms and turned toward the voice. A little smirk graced small, perfectly shaped lips as she courteously asked, “Yes?”

A black man in suit and jacket stepped from the cemetery’s shadows, a stake in one hand, the other pushing his glasses further up his nose. The man then matched the diminutive girl’s posture, crossing his arms and frowning down at her. “You were disarmed.”

“Ah, Watcher-mine, as if I hadn’t noticed.” Her English accent carried a resigned sarcasm as she dropped her offended posture to stroll to the man’s side. They began a slow, comfortable walk between the closely set graves, the man eyeing the Slayer with accustomed severity.

“It was a mistake,” she said plainly after a while, her cultured tone lessening the whine her voice took on. “A bad mistake,” Tracy admitted in a low tone marked with sorrow. She then stopped, turning to face her Watcher. Lowering her voice to match his serious expression, she said, “What more do you wish me to say, Robinson? Or shall I simply prepare myself for another needless lecture on all my fallen comrades?” She shook her head and resumed walking. “We both know I’ll die as the rest and it’s only a matter of time until Tracy Ruth Ramone becomes nothing more than another name on the list of Slayers lost in battle.”

The man’s eyes turned away and his expression softened. “I dunno what to do with you, Tracy. You seem so certain of your death—”

“And why shouldn’t I be? After all I’ve learned in only two years, why should I not embrace my destiny for what it is? Honor and duty and fighting for the good, working for the Powers… and the short life that comes with it. I accepted long ago that if I refused this life, my death would come all the more quickly.” She smiled to herself as they kept strolling along. “Yes, I learned my lessons well, and unless you have words I’ve not yet heard, you may speak them now, else keep them to yourself and deny me the repetitive theme of gory stories and unhappy-ever-afters.” She looked questioningly to him, and they shared honest looks of resigned grief.

“You’re right,” Robinson nodded after a silent moment, and the patrol resumed. “We can read and study, practice and train, yet none of this will stop the inevitable.”

“Right then. So, I can go to the cinema with Derek tomorrow rather than—”

Robinson broke her off with a laugh and a hand on her shoulder to stop their movement. “All this to get out of your monthly meeting with the Council?”

“Yes,” Tracy acknowledged of the accusation. “But I meant what I said. We die young, we Slayers. Speaking of which, have you heard more of the next calling? Will they bring forth another soon? Or shall I suffice for another few years?”

Robinson shook his head. “They won’t tell me of their plans. You know th—”

“Yes,” she growled with frustration. “I know that… but it would be nice to know. With two lines of Slayers, I don’t see why they don’t make use of them,” she grumbled unhappily.

“The vampires are a dying breed,” he lectured. “And with all the factions of demon fighters throughout the world, the Slayer—or Slayers—are also beginning to grow past their usefulness.”

Tracy nodded thoughtfully. “I would gladly spend a tortured life devoted to my calling if it meant no girl after me would ever have to.”

Robinson smiled soberly at his pupil. “A chivalrous vow, but we both know several more generations must follow in your footsteps before the world has no need of a Slayer…”

His words faded and Robinson watched curiously as Tracy halted mid-step, cocking her head, stake poised at the ready. Sensing nothing, the Watcher eyed the shadows nervously, but after a minute of such tense silence and frozen positions, Robinson finally dared to whisper out, “I hear nothing…”

Tracy’s eyes narrowed, and ultimately, she broke her stance and drew herself up, but did not ignore her senses as she answered, matching his whisper. “Nor do I…” She took several cautious steps toward the darkness of a nearby crypt. “But there’s something here, and I like it not.” 

Turning swiftly, Tracy faced only an empty graveyard. She backed toward her Watcher, offering him her attention, but not her deep blue gaze that still searched the shadows. “May we go now? Whatever’s out there… is not to be braved by only the two of us.”

Robinson nodded his assent and the two fled the familiar cemetery for safer ground, never seeing the still figure that now moved into the light, one that had watched them all the while. “Right you are. Not to be braved by only you two.” A smirk marred his words. “Nor by an army, prepare as you might.” The creature retreated to the shadows once more, disappearing into their depths as though with but a thought. “But I’ll not harm you, no. There’s far worse than I haunt these far corners of death-marked planes. Return when you’re ready… Slayer.”

=

“I _wish_ I knew how to describe it; I’d draw a picture or preach a sermon if I thought it would help, but I’ve told you all I can. It was simply a presence, strong and dark… and hiding in the shadows, though unafraid. But I must admit _I_ was. --Afraid, that is… Though I saw nothing, heard nothing, there was a sense of… old power. Not something… not something I’m ready to face, in all honesty.”

Council members exchanged nervous looks before their head, an elder woman with graying hair and sharp features, turned to the girl’s Watcher. “And you, Mr. Robinson? You saw nothing?”

Robinson stood from his seat at the Slayer’s right hand. “No, nothing. No sound. Nothing suspicious at all, but I do not doubt my Slayer’s senses. If she says something was there, then there was.”

The head of the Council nodded, accepting this answer. “Very well.” She turned to the man at her left. “I want your troupe to look into this, Sir Tanner.”

“Aye, Madame.”

The woman addressed the Slayer and Watcher once more. “Patrols shall continue as scheduled… but not near that area. Avoid the streets and cemeteries near the docks until we know more, and report at once if this occurs again. You are dismissed.”

=

A good fire sparked happily away in a small study lined with shelves of books and several great computer screens throughout, now emitting nothing but a dull glow.

A petite Slayer and her faithful Watcher sat in a pair of old fashioned high wingback chairs upholstered in worn, gray corduroy with polished oak legs before the fire. “I don’t like this.”

Tracy smiled. “And why should you? They’ve found nothing and I’ve not felt that… thing since that night. It was probably nothing more than overactive senses on high after a fight. It’s been a good month since then and our illustrious leader has proclaimed that nothing greater than your common vampires and lesser demons pollute our old city here in merry ole England, but I know that your first duty is to me and it’s your nature to worry. So, of course, you do. And you’ve no reason to ‘like this,’ even though it is _not_ , may I remind you, my first patrol alone. All the same, you’ll sit in your meeting and not hear of word of what Hemsburg or Tanner or anyone says because you shall be worried about me all the night long. Don’t give me that look! You know perfectly well that I’m right. And you know nothing either of us says to her will change the situation, and you know perfectly well that you can’t shield me forever. Besides, I’ve better odds than you at killing anything that crosses my path.”

“If you know what it is.”

“Oh pish posh! You’re just being negative now, and that does nothing for either of us. If you’ve anything useful to say, then spit it out before the sun leaves us,” she gestured to the setting sun out the picture window behind him, “and I leave you for the night’s patrol. Alone.”

“Oh, don’t rub it in, Tracy! I’ve enough to worry about without you making it worse…”

Tracy sighed melodramatically. “So sorry, dear Robinson, but this is the way of things. I promise I shall return before oh-two-hundred, and then you can interrogate me to your heart’s content.”

She stood and snatched a crystal drinking tumbler out of his hand. “That’s _not_ helping,” she chastised him. “I thought you were supposed to be the responsible one… not to mention that stuff tastes worse that my grandmama’s homemade cough syrup.”

Robinson also stood, staring indignantly down at her. “And when did you taste scotch?”

Tracy’s eyes widened. “Well! I’ll be back, don’t you worry!” She rushed out the door, pulling on her dark blue woolen sweater as she ran and grabbing the smelted iron-core wooden stake on the table as she passed by the settee. “Good night!”

=

“I hear you…” Tracy called out in a singsong voice, ignoring the pricking at the back of her mind that warned of a greater danger. “Come out, come out, wherever you are, you nasty little vampire…”

Without warning, a massive, hulking mountain of undead flesh jumped out before the tiny teenager, baring gruesome fangs and snarling with menace. “This is the Slayer?! I can’t believe it. Well, I’ve come to kill you! I hope you’re ready to die, little one…”

“Why do they always call me little?” Tracy complained to herself as she dodged the first series of blows, rolling between his huge legs and popping up behind him to jam her weapon down into his back. 

She landed smoothly with the falling dust, senses perked as she felt another creature sneaking up behind her. She whirled, stake at the ready, to see a vampiress careening toward her in a mad fury. This one was not so easy to dispatch, a decent match for Tracy’s agility and skill. They ducked and parried and soon, Tracy grew tired of getting thrown into the dirty brick walls of London’s back alleys. A backhand to her jaw sent the Slayer sprawling and she looked up into fierce, ugly yellow eyes glaring at her from above. She waited, and when the vampire descended, Tracy allowed her to impale herself on the waiting stake. 

“Never seem to get much smarter, do they?” she muttered to herself as she stood to brush off the demon’s dust.

“Not as a rule.”

Startled by the voice, Tracy whirled to see a man watching from hardly four feet away, leaning against an in-set doorframe, hardly visible in the darkened alley. Tracy backed away quickly. “You! I… I felt you, in the cemetery, near a month ago… didn’t I?”

“That you did, pet,” the vampire agreed, slinking out from his nest of shadows to swagger up to her. “And now, I’ve come here—”

“Oh please,” Tracy ground out in annoyance, forgetting, for a moment, the power that emanated so clearly from him to her Slayer senses. “Not another one… You’ve come to kill me? Did I not just show you what a much wiser idea it would be for you to turn tail and beat feet faster than a bat out of hell?”

The tall, pale man shook his head. “I didn’t come here to kill you. I came here to die.”

Shocked by these mystifying words, Tracy took a step back, wondering once more at the old and powerful creature before her. “Who are you?” she asked. 

“My name is William. But my friends called me Spike.”

“Spike?!” Tracy asked in disbelief. “Ugh! I can’t believe this!” she shouted out as she turned her back to him and threw up her hands, beginning to walk away. She felt him follow, but did not turn as she continued her rant. “Do you _know_ how many stupid weakling fledglings claim to be the long-dead Angel, the great vampire with a soul, or even Angelus, the scourge of Europe? Do you know how many ridiculous little goth vamps have tried to persuade me that they are Vlad the Impaler, Count Dracula himself? Or even, Lestat, the blonde hero of Rice’s old ‘Vampire Chronicles?’” She turned to face him once more, the mane of long, dirty blond hair falling around his angular face, backlight creating a seeming halo of the loose wisps. “Now, if you tried Lestat, I might have taken another look, even doubted myself, but ‘Spike’ disappeared from the history books centuries ago! What game are you playing?!”

He advanced upon her threateningly, a dangerous gleam in his blue eyes. “I don’t play games. Not anymore. I want you to kill me,” he growled, the first betrayal of emotion in those last words, an indefinable need in his pleading voice.

Tracy only stared, her mouth open in disbelief, before turning on her heel and marching away, back to toward the main street running perpendicular to the small alley they inhabited. She felt his presence fade as she walked quickly away, heading for the safety of home at the Council compound.

=

“And you’re certain?”

“I-I’m not certain of anything. I mean, he’s a legend, but the voice… he was a vampire, but not like any I’ve ever met. It was almost as if he had a soul, it was… I can’t explain it.”

Robinson nodded and stood, swiftly crossing to a bookshelf across from Tracy where she sat at a small table, sipping tea that he’d prepared for her upon her frenzied return. He drew forth a large book and laid it on the table, turning through several pages before coming to a series of photographs. A man. Or a vampire. Long, dirty blond hair pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck and bright blue eyes, a smirk pulling at thin lips. He stood between an old man and young woman. “Peter Wyndham-Price. Francine Malone. And William the Bloody.”

Tracy paled at the sight. “He’s real then, he’s still alive… and he came to me…” She gulped and finally turned away from the photos to face her Watcher. “Do you think…?”

When she trailed off, he asked, “What?”

“Is he dangerous?” Tracy asked nervously, recalling the sense of power he’d carried with him.

Robinson sighed and stood. Tracy could just see him winding up for lecture mode. “From what I’ve heard, William hasn’t killed in centuries. He’s no reason to begin now. Did he threaten you?”

“No… No. He said… he wanted me to kill him.”

Robinson frowned and the two sat in silence, pondering the resurgence of a legend.

=

The next night, Watcher and Slayer walked slowly along a back alley, not far from the encounter she’d had the previous night, hoping to once more meet the old vampire and answer the many questions surrounding him.

They shared a disconcerted sense of wrongness. Something wasn’t right, there in the alley. There was no noise, no hissing fumes from the sewers, no electrical hum from the routing canisters, no leftover noise from the nearby London Bridge. No yowling cats nor beating wings nor any evidence of life, human or otherwise. “Brought a protector this time, I see.”

Watcher and Slayer spun about. He walked forth from the shadows, all blue eyes and sharp angles and dirty hair. His presence was sad. Robinson stood forward. “Is it true what you said?”

“Yes,” Spike answered easily.

“Why?” Tracy interrupted. “Why, after all this time?”

Spike pointed to the sky. “Stars are gone.”

Robinson folded his arms. “Can’t see the stars from the cities anymore,” he explained slowly, as if to a child. “Not for a long time now.”

“Not from the cities,” Spike repeated, staring up into acetylene violet gray. “Not from the hills. Not in summer heat nor winter chills. No more stars, search though you might the world over for heav’nly light. Even the moon is gone now. You are killing yourselves. I won’t let you take me with you.”

“The Slayers?” Tracy asked, confused.

But Robinson shook his head. “He means humans.”

Spike turned and started slowly pacing in and out of the mechanical shadows cast by the routing canisters and antennae and solar plates. “How long have you been poisoning yourselves? Once you started, you never stopped. Once you have comfort, you want luxury. Once you have money, you want riches. Once you have something, you want more And all of that wanting is going to lead to the End.”

“The end of what?” Tracy wanted to know.

“Everything. And I don’t want to be there to see it.”

Tracy exchanged a confused and fearful look with her Watcher. “I… I can’t just kill someone who won’t fight back, someone who hasn’t killed…”

Spike growled. “I’m not a someone; I’m not anyone; I’m a vampire!”

Tracy shook her head, her hands shaking for the first time in a long time.

“Dammit!” he screamed, charging her down with outstretched hands like claws.

But Tracy didn’t flinch, and he didn’t touch her. His face didn’t even change.

“You can’t do it,” she whispered. “And neither can I.”

Desperate, Spike turned hopeful blue eyes to the tall American. Robinson shook his head.

Spike glowered at both and turned to stalk down the alley, coat flaring behind him.


	6. The End

Time: Unknown

_Things are different now, Buffy. No more towns, cities. Hardly anything left really, but a wasteland. I hear tell there are still forests somewhere, but I’ve not the means to get there. They say the sea is slowly losing the blood red tint, but I do not care to look upon it. They say an uprising has begun somewhere in Uganda, or where Uganda used to be: a collection of survivors, clinging to a new reality. I say bollocks. There’s not enough left. Of anything. I’m lucky to get a meal once or twice a week. And usually that’s just rat. Cat or dog if I’m lucky. The few humans I see I wouldn’t dare to feed on. Too sick and gone to know anything. Don’t know if the chip even works anymore, but I haven’t touched a human in decades. Don’t plan to anytime soon, either._

_I wonder if I should greet the sun one morning. It seems to me the proper thing to do. There aren’t enough humans around to laugh at, no clubs or movies or shows. Nothing to do but sit and think of you. But I always end up somewhere safe before sunrise. Though I think it’s more of a habit than anything to do with self-preservation. I endure._

_I don’t wish for much anymore, you know, but sometimes I wish I knew how you’re doing, where you are, if the clouds taste like cotton candy up in your heavenly sky. I still see your eyes in the starlit sky, now the ash has settled. That ever-changing midnight blue. You know, vampires can see all the colors of the night time sky… And I still hear your laugh in the breeze, when the wind is ever generous enough to blow my way. And I still feel you in my dreams. Dunno why. It stopped. For a long time it stopped. I even thought, for a short while, that I could forget you completely, but now, when the world has become the shell I’d always knew it was, only my memories of you remain bright. When I am awake, you’re all that fills my mind. When I’m asleep, you’re all that fills my dreams. And such beautiful dreams. I can walk with you in the sand. And while I sit under what was once a great beast of metal that ruled the seas, now a blackened husk, I can close my eyes and remember your smirk, your fist, your voice, and I can keep living in a world that’s dead. Because, it is dead, and so are you. And hey, so am I._


End file.
